A unique video went viral overnight.

In the video, on a snow-capped mountain peak, my boyfriend, Ted Moretti, knelt on one knee, his expression tender.

Amidst applause, the ring on her finger sparkled; it was the ring of the Moretti family's future bride.

Within hours, the video topped various trending charts.

People hailed it as the most romantic proposal of the year.

Anya Rossi later posted a message.

"I've been looking forward to this wedding for so long, and now it's finally happening! Thank you!"

The comment section was instantly flooded with excited exclamations.

"A Mafia family heir and an ordinary woman? I love it!"

"It's like something out of a novel."

"So enviable."

I went to my boyfriend to confirm.

Before I could even speak, I heard him talking to a close friend in the study.

“Do I have any other choice?” Ted said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

“If I don’t marry her, her gambler father will sell her off.”

His friend hesitated. “But what about Carly? She’s been with you for so many years. Aren’t you worried she might lose her mind?”

Ted chuckled, unconcerned.

“So what if she’s angry? Carly and I have been together for six years. She won’t leave. She can’t leave.”

At that moment, something deep inside me seemed to freeze completely.

A month later

On the same day Ted and Carly got married, I married another man.

Our wedding processions met downtown.

According to custom, we exchanged bouquets between the two passing wedding cars, and our windows rolled down simultaneously.

That’s when Ted saw me.

I was wearing a white wedding dress. Not behind him.

But in another man’s arms.

After knowing Ted Moretti for so many years, his consistently perfect composure crumbled for the first time.

After learning that Ted Moretti had proposed to his secretary, I called my mother.

“Mom,” I said softly, “I’ve decided to accept the marriage arranged by the family.”

The living room was dimly lit, the heavy curtains drawn tightly. My voice sounded distant and hollow—as if it came from another person.

There was a sharp silence on the other end of the line.

“You were so vehemently against it before,” my mother said cautiously. “Carly, marriage isn’t a transaction. The important thing is your happiness. Don’t force yourself.”

Her concern made my throat tighten.

“I’ve thought it through,” I replied. “You can start making arrangements.”

She exhaled slowly, as if she had expected me to say that.

“You and Ted have been together for so many years,” she said gently. “But he’s never acknowledged you at home. He doesn’t even remember your birthday. Your father and I have known for a long time—this relationship will never end well.”

Every word she spoke clearly and painfully revealed the truth.

Everyone saw the truth—except me.

“The Ryder family is powerful,” my mother continued. “Their son is steady, disciplined, and upright. He understands the rules of our world. Carly, you should find someone who puts you first.”

I closed my eyes.

“Thank you, Mom,” I said. “I believe you.”

“Would you like us to arrange a meeting first?” she asked.

“Not yet,” I replied softly. “Let’s start planning the wedding first.”

After a brief silence, her tone became pragmatic.

“Then let’s set the wedding for a month from now.”

After hanging up, I felt someone behind me.

Ted was standing there.

He held a gift box—black and gold, with a prominent logo of an Italian luxury brand.

“A wedding?” he asked, frowning slightly. “Who’s getting married?”

He stiffened, alert and wary.

“It’s definitely not me,” I said casually.

I smiled and shook my head gently.

“Just a friend.”

The tension on his shoulder almost instantly dissipated. The sight stung my chest.

He sighed in relief. Was it because he thought I wasn't pressuring him?

Or because he thought I hadn't yet discovered that he—the wedding everyone was celebrating—was already engaged?

“I brought you your favorite LV bag,” he said. “Would you like to try it on?”

Once, such a gesture would have made me feel valued.

But now, I only felt bitterness.

Not long ago, I saw Anya's social media post.

That LV bag wasn't my favorite.

It was hers.

Perfume, lipstick, and all the gifts Ted had given me over the years—they were all her favorites.

Then I realized something worse.

Ted only started giving me gifts after Anya joined his company.

So, Ted, when you think of me…

Are you really thinking of me?

I swallowed hard.

“I don't like LV anymore,” I said calmly. “Don’t buy me anything anymore.”

He stared at me. “When did this start?”

I didn’t argue.

“My taste has changed,” I replied.

Some things, once seen clearly, can never be forgotten.

Ted's been busy with his Mafia business these past few days and completely forgot he promised to celebrate my birthday with me.

But it doesn't matter, because I have no feelings for him anymore.

He finally remembered—and decided to make it up to me.

Instead of tickets, Ted claimed he’d pulled some strings to arrange a private appearance by my favorite star. Someone I’d admired for years. In his world, calling in favors was second nature, but even so, getting that close to someone so high-profile wasn’t easy—not even for the heir of a Mafia family whose name quietly opened doors across Europe.

I had tried before and failed. So when he mentioned it casually, as if it were nothing, and invited me to go with him, I agreed without hesitation.

On the night of the event, I arrived early and waited outside the opera house.

And waited.

The Parisian streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, the glow blurring under a fine drizzle that slowly soaked through my coat. The city felt hushed, heavy—like it was holding its breath.

Then my phone buzzed.

It wasn’t a message from Ted.

It was an Instagram post from Anja.

She’d uploaded a photo flaunting two VIP passes to the Paris Opera.

Her caption read:

“Even though I don’t really understand it, it’s so nice having my loved ones with me.”

The photo didn’t show any faces—just two figures seated side by side.

At first glance, it could’ve been anyone.

But then I saw it.

The edge of a dark coat sleeve, slightly turned up. The distinctive stitching at the cuff—clean, sharp, unmistakable.

I knew that coat.

I’d had it custom-made for Ted years ago, commissioned through a private tailor who worked exclusively for families like ours. The fabric, the cut, even the barely visible inner lining—it was something no one else would have.

My chest tightened.

There was no mistaking it.

Ted.

Ice-cold rain clung to my hair and slid down my neck, seeping into my clothes, chilling me to the bone.

But the cold in my chest was far worse.

My phone buzzed again.

This time, it was my mother.

She told me the wedding was set for two weeks from now.

All the major Mafia families have been contacted, and they have all pledged to attend the wedding. I can also bring up any other ideas I may have.

“No need. Let’s keep it as planned.”

In our world, postponing a wedding was never just personal.

It was a statement—one that affected alliances, reputations, and balance. I was done complicating things.

The storm intensified, and I was so cold that I shivered and almost fainted.

Finally, Ted called.

His voice was casual, almost distracted, like he was checking something off a list.

“Why aren’t you home yet?”

I kept my voice level, drained of emotion.

"Have you forgotten what you promised me?"

There was a short pause—brief, careless. The kind that meant he was searching his memory.

There was a brief silence on the line.

“Oh—wait.” His voice shifted, sharper now, as if something had just occurred to him.

“Today. We were supposed to meet today.”

He let out a low breath.

“I’m sorry. I completely forgot.”

“I had something come up this afternoon, but I should’ve called. That’s my fault.”

He hesitated, then added quickly, almost too quickly,

“Are you still there? I can come now. Or we can reschedule—tomorrow, this weekend. Anywhere you want.”

I listened quietly.

“I figured,” I said at last. My tone was even, unbothered. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” he said at once. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Really,” I interrupted gently. “I’ll head home on my own in a bit. You don’t need to rush.”

Another pause.

“At least let me pick you up,” he insisted, his voice lowered. “It’s late.”

“There’s no need,” I replied. “I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t speak for a second, as if searching for the right words.

“…All right,” he said finally. “Text me when you get home.”

“I will.”

When the call ended, I didn’t feel disappointed.

I’d expected this outcome from the moment I’d dialed his number.

And when you’ve already imagined the ending,

it doesn’t hurt nearly as much when it arrives.

Only moments later, Anja updated her Instagram again.

“He didn’t want me getting sick in this weather, so he made me hot chocolate and insisted I stay warm. A man who actually takes care of you is irresistible. ”

The photo shows Ted's back, and you can tell he's working very hard to make hot chocolate.

I stared at the screen for a second, then turned it off, because I didn't care anymore.

The night in the rain left me exhausted and shaken, my body worn down by stress and lack of sleep rather than illness.

The doctor called it acute fatigue—borderline collapse—and advised rest and distance from unnecessary stimulation.

I used that as an excuse to move out of the master bedroom, telling Ted I needed space and quiet

For once, Ted set aside matters within the family—meetings, negotiations, the constant stream of obligations that came with his position—and stayed behind, clearly intending to take care of me.

But I didn’t need his concern anymore.

Not this version of it.

“I just need some quiet,” I said calmly. “I’ve been overstimulated. Too many people, too much noise. I’ll be fine on my own. You should go deal with your responsibilities.”

He frowned, watching me in silence, as though trying to find the place where things had shifted.

“You used to want me around the most when things got rough,” he said slowly. “What changed?”

I lowered my head, hiding everything in my eyes, and forced a small, polite smile.

“I used to be a child, I didn’t understand anything, but now I understand you.”

A flicker of disbelief crossed his face, because I was always so clingy to him.

“Really?”

“I’m fine,” I answered calmly. “Really, you can go now.”

He hesitated for a moment, then remembered Anya was waiting for him.

“Okay,” he said, “call me if anything happens.”

After he closed the door, I let out a long sigh of relief, preparing to get some rest.

When I woke up, my phone was lit up; it was another text message from my mother.

The wedding plans were finally finalized

She also sent over a dozen wedding design proposals—each a meticulously planned vision.

I scrolled through the designs absently, tapping to enlarge a few. Seating arrangements, security layouts, floral symbolism—everything had already been planned down to the smallest detail.

I was so absorbed that I didn’t hear Ted come in until he suddenly snatched the phone from my hand and tossed it onto the bed.

“What are you doing looking at wedding designs?” he asked, his brows drawing together.

There was a sharpness there—but beneath it, something else.

A flicker of tension. Of alarm.

For a split second, I thought he knew.

That he’d realized I was planning a wedding of my own—one that had nothing to do with him.

My fingers hovered above the screen. I was just about to speak when he exhaled slowly, as if steadying himself.

“Kari,” he said, lowering his voice, “you know how things are right now.”

His gaze didn’t quite meet mine.

“I just stepped into the Don. The family’s watching every move I make.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully. “This year… it’s not realistic.”

There it was.

Not a refusal.

Just a postponement wrapped in reason.

“I’m not saying no,” he added quickly, as if afraid I’d misunderstand. “I just need time. You understand that, don’t you?”

I smiled—thin, careful.

“It’s not mine,” I said. “A friend’s wedding. She asked me to help her look.”

He stilled.

Then, visibly, his shoulders relaxed.

“Oh.” A breath escaped him, one he clearly hadn’t meant to let out.

“I thought…”

He stopped himself, then gave a quiet laugh, as if embarrassed by his own reaction.

“Good,” he said. “I didn’t want you worrying. Or feeling pressured.”

His tone softened, almost tender.

“Next year,” he promised, meeting my eyes at last. “I’ll give you a wedding everyone will envy. Something worthy of you.”

I nodded.

But as he spoke, all I could hear was the relief in his voice—not because he’d reassured me,but because he’d realized he still had time to keep lying.

An hour after he left, claiming there was trouble at an underground casino,

my phone vibrated again—not a message from Ted, but a notification from a private group chat.

It was one of those circles you only got added to if your name actually meant something.

No idle chatter. No small talk.

When something changed, the news moved faster than any rumor ever could.

Ted’s account.

He almost never posted publicly. In his world, visibility was calculated. Anything shared openly could be interpreted as intent—as alignment.

I opened the image.

"When the right person stands beside you, you no longer hesitate. You will choose her and officially enter into marriage."

Below the title is a photo of Anya and Ted.

The next picture shows their wedding date.

Messages flooded the chat almost immediately. No emojis. No sympathy. Just blunt reactions from people who understood exactly what this meant.

A mutual friend messaged me:

"My God. What is Ted thinking? He's going to marry a normal woman."

I left the chat and checked Ted's profile myself.

The post was still there.

Less than ten minutes later, it disappeared.

No explanation. No clarification.

Then, almost seamlessly, the same caption and images resurfaced—this time on Anja’s Instagram, framed as her announcement.

In our world, that kind of transfer wasn’t an accident.

This was intentional.

Then my phone rang.

Before, I would have answered immediately, angrily confronting him with tears in my eyes. But this time, I didn't.

This time, I let it ring, like a nuisance call.

A few minutes later, the call ended, and the room returned to its initial silence.

Looking at Anya's tweet, I felt no sting, no burning anger.

If I had to feel anything, it was a sense of absurdity.

Their wedding and my wedding were on the same day; I didn't know if it was coincidence or fate.

That night, when Ted finally came home, I was already in bed, eyes closed, breathing steadily—pretending to be asleep.

He moved quietly through the room, his steps measured and alert—so unlike the arrogance he usually wore so easily as the heir to a powerful family.

"Carly," he asked softly, a hint of anger in his voice.

"I called you earlier, why didn't you answer?"

I pretended to have just woken up.

“I must have been asleep, I didn’t hear you.”

He sighed in relief, leaned closer, and reached out to cover me with the blanket.

"Feeling better?"

Just then, a scent that wasn’t his wafted over me.

The smell made me nauseous.

I shifted slightly, avoiding his touch.

He paused.

"Carly," he asked cautiously in a low voice, "did you see something?"

I closed my eyes, not wanting to look at him.

“No. I’m just tired and want to sleep.”

He didn’t press further.

That night, I slept soundly until dawn.

When I woke up the next morning, I felt a huge weight lifted off my shoulders, as if nothing could hold me back anymore.

With my mind clear, I began packing my bags.

I erased every trace of myself from this house—it was never truly mine to begin with.

Only then did I realize how many couple's items I'd bought over the years.

Ted used to say I was childish, that it would damage the Mafia family's reputation, but he still used these things with me.

But ever since Anya came along, he never used them again.

Looking at these things, I couldn't help but laugh at myself. As the family's princess, I wasn't even an ordinary woman.

While searching, I found a diary.

It contained countless memories of Ted and me, filled with my love and Ted's promises.

It recorded the years we spent together.

But since Anya came along, it had disappeared.

When Ted came home, I was throwing the diary into the shredder.

He lunged forward, a flicker of fear and rage crossing his face, and snatched the diary back. Ignoring the injury on his finger, he turned to me furiously.

"Are you crazy?" he demanded. "Why did you destroy the diary?"